


Silent + Sepulchral

by CommanderBunnBunn



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Gen, George Eads Appreciation Week, Jack Dalton Lives (MacGyver TV 2016), amnesia jack, but he doesn't know who he is, houseboat mac
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:40:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29890242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommanderBunnBunn/pseuds/CommanderBunnBunn
Summary: On the verge of a physical and emotional implosion, Mac takes a sabbatical alone to find some peace.
Relationships: Jack Dalton & Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016)
Comments: 36
Kudos: 36





	1. J.W.D.

**Author's Note:**

> He’s been here for three weeks. Unidentified caucasian male. Fingerprints not on file through any international database. Nothing matching his description in any missing persons registry. Lots of scarring and distinctive features, but no identifying marks except for a crudely applied, fairly recent, tattoo between the 4th and 5th rib under his arm. 
> 
> **J.W.D. 03.01.75**
> 
> My partner believes him to be American. They call unidentified men “John Doe” on American television, so that is what we call him. The initials match so it works. The numbers follow the American date format, so we assume that’s his date of birth, which makes today his birthday. Happy 46th birthday John W. Doe. I hope you wake up soon.

> He doesn’t say anything for the first three days he’s awake. They wonder if he’s sustained some sort of permanent brain damage due to the traumatic nature of his injury. He responds mildly to stimuli but doesn’t answer questions; he doesn’t even make eye contact. They still call him John.

They keep calling him John. It feels right but doesn’t sound exactly right. Is that really his name? John. John. John. It feels so familiar, but also not quite right. His head hurts and he feels like he’s supposed to be doing something but isn’t exactly sure what.

He’s just tired. They say he slept for weeks, but he doesn’t feel rested at all. Something’s missing. They ask him questions he can’t answer, so he doesn’t. Something instinctually tells him that it’s better to just say nothing. _Don’t show your hand._

He stares blankly, gives no indication of comprehension, he knows that’s the best route-unassuming. They bring people in to try to get through to him in other languages; he understands at least half a dozen of them but doesn’t let on that he’s even listening. 

A lady comes in twice a day and manipulates his arms and legs. She talks the whole time in a language he understands but can't quite identify. Apparently she's been doing it for weeks, telling him what she's doing before she does it. He’s pliant and seems oblivious to her presence, but she’s delighted that he’s awake now. 

After a week, they tell him it’s time to try eating, then he can start working to get out of bed for physical therapy. He doesn’t acknowledge the instruction or make eye contact, but accepts the spoonfuls of warm broth. If he opts to feed himself, they’ll take the feeding tube out of his belly. 

They know how his body is broken, they intend to fix it to the best of their ability, but they’re not sure what’s wrong with his mind. The synapses appear to be firing and missing their marks. He knows to let them believe what they want to believe and no one’s the wiser. 

Two weeks later, and he's ready to stand with assistance. Free of all tethers to equipment, he progresses slowly, undoing months of atrophy. He harbors the slightest bit of guilt for taking advantage of their generosity by playing down his recovered mental prowess, but they seem to be genuinely enjoying their jobs. They seem to “know” him well enough to make friendly one sided conversation and tell him how phenomenally he’s improving. They even shave his beard for him.

He complies now, but without reaction. No smiles, no frowns, no emotions at all. A barely sentient robot following commands, doing what he’s told like a good little… _soldier_? The word digs a pit in his stomach. It has meaning to him that he can’t place, but it is accompanied by a sensation. Beige. Dry. Death. 

The frustration from the missed connection has him almost ready to ditch the zombie act and ask where they found him. What was he wearing? Who was he with? But he can't. This place is a means to an end and his anonymity keeps him safe, it keeps them all safe. He’s not perceived as a threat to them either, despite the fact that he feels like that's a lie. 

His hair has grown out and completely covers the new scar behind his ear. He hasn’t seen it, but he’s touched it-a line that bends at about a 115 degree angle next to a straight line. Almost like the letter K. From what he’s overheard, it was some kind of explosion, shrapnel in more than a few places, but that one was the big one, the one that “messed him up” like this. 

He goes through the motions of physical therapy for the next month, his mind and body getting stronger every day, cleverly showing no outwardly clear signs of cognitive improvement, all the while frustrated by blips of meaningless images trying to tell him a story of his past life that he just can’t piece together. There are no faces, only feelings, moods, environments. But he doesn’t share, he hasn’t said a word since he woke up. Still he doesn’t make eye contact or answer questions, he does as he’s told, looking straight ahead, eyes glazed and locked on nothing in particular, unsteady and timid with his movements. 

When he overhears them talking outside the door, he almost feels bad about hiding his mental acuity behind a mask of dazed aberration. They don’t want to throw him out into the world when he hasn’t yet shown that he is capable of taking care of himself. Where will he stay? What will he eat? How will he survive? He’s seen the same dozen people every day for months. They’ve grown attached to the man who doesn’t converse with them or even react to them. He’s overheard their theories on who he is and what he was, and they’re quite clever, he wonders if any of them are actually right. 

He knows his time there is short, they say he’s strong enough to leave and they can no longer justify him staying at the hospital. They talk about institutions and hospices; he knows it’s time to go. He’s collected a few articles of clothing generously donated over time by his caregivers, a kindness he intends to find a way to repay one day. 

As he slides the gifted sneakers on, he ponders what kind of message to leave. He doesn’t want them to think he wandered off or is in danger, but he also doesn’t want to give anything away or make them feel duped.

Carefully, he folds the sheet and blanket and places them neatly at the foot of the bed. He finds a baseball cap to contain his fluffy hair and sneaks out unnoticed, leaving his meandering unsure gait behind at the door, replaced with the much sturdier and capable man they rebuilt. 

Determined to find his way back to whomever he may have been several months ago, John W. Doe sets off to search for himself.

Construction and demolition are easy jobs for him to find, even without verbally communicating--show you can do the work, get cash on the way out. It comes naturally to him, somehow. He wonders if that was part of his past life, but it doesn’t feel like it’s _him_. 

He searches the papers to find a job on a fishing boat with hopes to smuggle himself to the U.S. A lot of places are familiar to him, but _that_ feels like it’s supposed to be home. He thinks in English, his inner voice has a southern drawl. He’s headed to the east coast of the United States.

After months of voluntary muteness, he no longer feels the urge to speak. He doesn’t need it. No one questions it, and it prevents people from asking questions he can not answer. People talk loudly at him and presume he's hard of hearing as well, but it doesn't really bother him because he can still communicate.

He finds construction jobs day laboring, cash pay, undocumented, as he works his way west. Destination: unknown, but each place he visits eliminates more from the map. 

America is a little different, it stirs up lots of memories. The interstate signs, the music, the cars, so many familiar things that just don’t affix to a certain point or place, but they’re _familiar_. He finds himself firing the nail gun in time with the beat of a country song, he knows the words and hears another man’s voice singing it with him in his head, but there’s nothing else, no images, no names. He’s frustrated but trudges along; It’s the closest he’s come to a memory returning yet. 

After a week, the foreman offers him an actual job, he even brings someone to interpret in sign language to make the offer. Impressed that the foreman goes through all the trouble to get an interpreter that he doesn't need, he feels bad that he has to decline. A head shake is all he responds with. The foreman and the signer both offer a good compensation plan and a place to stay, but he shakes his head again and turns over his hardhat. 

Having seen the behavior before, the foreman knows he’s lost his worker, he assumes he’s a felon or wanted, which is why he isn’t wanting his wages or identity reported to the government. The foreman approaches from behind and places a hand on his shoulder. As he turns around, he’s handed a decent stack of cash and a firm handshake. 

“Anytime you’re in the area and need work and discretion, come find me. Good luck.” The foreman makes sure to enunciate loudly and hands over a business card with a handwritten phone number on the back. With the card tucked into his coverall pocket, he walks off the site and to the motel to gather his things to move on to the next city. 

For weeks, he stops in a different city almost every night, carrying his large duffel now stuffed with some personal items and snacks he’s acquired in his travels. He grabs a room at a motel every now and again for a night to get cleaned up and rest well. 

New Orleans is a whole different experience. The familiarity is met with discomfort. He doesn’t like it at all, it feels like a bad place. Not a bad place in general, but a bad place for him. There’s no longing or desire to stay here longer than necessary. 

Texas can’t get there fast enough. Texas feels right, Texas feels like home, but it’s not where he’s supposed to be. It feels like skimming chapters in a long closed book, ideas and places still overwhelm his mind with familiarity, but they don’t have context or depth. The trek through the state is a long one, and most of the way through it, it’s time to find temporary steady work again. 

The day to day work options are harder to find here. He finally gets picked up for a crew building an entire neighborhood. Hoping this will bring a week of steady money, he's internally panicked when the foreman makes them all fill out paperwork once they get on site. They’re requiring names and social security numbers. He figures if he just makes up a number, he can get a good week’s worth of work before anyone checks up on the information and he has to leave. 

As he fills out the papers, John W. Doe doesn’t sound legitimate, it's clearly a fake name. John W. Davis sounds like a real name, it doesn’t sound like his name, but it feels like it fits. He must have known a Davis before. Prepared to string together a series of 9 random numbers, he starts writing without thinking and the numbers find themselves, maybe an old phone number ingrained in his memory from the days of punching in numbers on solid buttons, but there aren’t enough numbers. He mentally thanks and apologizes to the unknown person whose social security number he’s using fraudulently. 

John W. Davis has a job and a social security number now. A week passes and no there are red flags from his flagrant identity theft, either they aren’t reporting like they’re supposed to, or no one has noticed.

  
  


> Months after Jack’s death, a social security number for one of Jack’s old aliases is compromised by a scammer. Rather than upset the team with the news that someone has stolen a piece of their dead partner's old CIA identity, she sends the report straight to Dawn to handle. It’s about time to fabricate and file death certificates for all of his old aliases anyway, starting with Elias Harwood, who's apparently being used to launder money in Texas through construction payroll. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mac finds a new normal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a complete 180 from the previous one. gotta lighten it up a little.

> After Jack’s death, MacGyver spiraled. His mental health took a beating from the grief and the guilt. He asked Russ and Matty for a sabbatical with a promise that he’d not do anything dangerous if they allowed him to go off grid. Of course no one believed him, so he wasn’t allowed to go incommunicado, but they agreed to leave him alone for the most part. 
> 
> Back in the sandbox, Jack had talked about retirement and how his dream was to just disappear, popping up every once in a while to see family. No mortgage, no electric bills, nothing. Store the cars, pre-pay for a year in advance, and then hop on a houseboat to relax and disconnect from everything else in life except the earth, water, and sky. 
> 
> There was a marina on a lake in Arizona he’d been eyeing for years. He thought that a landlocked state would be an ironic place to live on a boat, and therefore it was the sure choice. Who would look for him there? Plus he’d be close enough for a trip to the Grand Canyon for a nice hike and bonding with nature. 

Three months since Jack died, and Mac heads to Arizona on the off chance that Jack had actually faked his death in true Jack Dalton fashion and retired to his proverbial dream boat. After checking all of the boats by name at all the marinas, Mac finds hope and the one that's sure to be Jack’s. Upon seeing the name of the vessel, his heart leapt into his throat. The Millennium Stallion; it has to be Jack’s. 

He asks the attendant at the marina for any and all information he can get out of him. 

Mac approaches with confidence, he's so close to finding Jack. “Hi, I was wondering if you could help me out.”

“Sure, what’s up?”

“My dad died a few months ago, and has a boat docked here, I was wondering if you could tell me if anyone’s been by.”

“The name?”

He checks the alias only Mac knows about, “Nelson Bruce." A name Jack had mentioned jokingly years ago as an homage to two of his favorites, Willie Nelson and Bruce Willis. 

“Your name?”

Mac thinks for a moment and provides a name he thought Jack would have made up for him, “Jackson Bruce."

He checks the ancient computer monitor and explains, “boat’s registered to him...and to you too I see. It’s yours now, I guess. The spot is pre-paid for another two years. Tuesday is the day they drain the tanks.” 

Barely able to contain his relief and pride at his ability to predict Jack's moves, Mac grins and asks, “Has...anyone been here?”

“No. I don’t see all the comings and goings, but this record hasn’t been accessed in years and the boat hasn’t moved either. Gonna need some TLC to get her seaworthy again, I’m sure. Purge the tanks. Check the hull for leaks.”

“I think I can manage it. Thank you.” 

Mac has difficulty holding in his excitement. The attendant said he hasn’t seen anyone, but that doesn’t mean Jack hasn’t been there. Jack is stealthy, and if he doesn’t want to be seen, you won’t see him. The boat creaks as he steps onto the deck, old timbers bending and grinding beneath his weight. The sun worn roof will need a little work, hopefully it hasn’t leaked. The door is locked, but that’s never been a problem for Mac. 

The door gives a lot of resistance after he picks the lock; the hinges haven’t moved in years. Every revelation on the boat is more heartbreaking than the last. The jugs of drinking water expired a year ago. There’s no food, but a small untouched stash of MREs in case of emergency tucked into a cabinet. The place doesn’t even smell like Jack. It’s musty and stale, and Jack’s clothes in the drawers smell like cedar and mothballs. Thankfully, its untouched state is a blessing, clearly no one knows this is Jack’s boat, so it is a great place to lay low and relax. 

Mac spends the next three days working intensely on restoring the boat back to its previous state, and it's the best he’s felt in a while despite his initial disappointment. The tasks keep his mind and hands occupied, and seeing his progress gives him a sense of accomplishment he’s not felt in months.

While working on the deck, one of the neighbors down the dock stops to say hello. He’s kept quiet and to himself the entire time, and hasn’t encountered anyone outside of the trips to the hardware store and for groceries. 

“Hi!” she speaks loudly and waves with her whole arm, the other arm clutching pink canvas shopping bags. “I’m glad to see someone finally moved in. This boat’s been empty since I moved in last year. I’m Delia, that’s my boat.” She points to the cute little boat with lavender accents.

Hearing more confirmation that Jack's boat had been truly abandoned, Mac swallows hard and tries to compose himself. “Nice to meet you, I’m...Mac.” He hesitates, wondering if he should just use the name on the registration record, but deciding at the last minute that Mac could be explained away as a nickname.

“Hi, Mac” she’s delighted, “So what do you do?” She goes right in for the awkward small talk.

“I’m, umm, retired.” 

“You’re awful young for retirement,” she starts, then stops herself for being too intrusive, “I guess I’m kinda retired too, so forget I said that.”

“Oh, what did you do before?” he takes over control of the conversation to keep the questions directed at him to a minimum.

“Ah, I was a vet.” She takes a breath, “veterinarian.” she answers before he could ask the question blooming on his face. “I burnt out, compassion fatigue is no joke, so I took a little break. I mean I deal with watching sweet kids losing their best furry friends every day, and it hurts. It affected my mental health, my physical health, everything. I had regulars that I recognized, I was attached to. So I thought I’d get away from everything and just kind of unplug. Honestly I’d hoped I’d find some sexy muscular hillbilly to show me that life is more than money and a career, like some kind of stupid Hallmark movie, but that’s not been the case.”

Mac laughs, amused by her candid exposition. She blushes. He apologizes, “No, I’m not laughing at you, it’s just funny.” 

“I’m a blabbermouth too, just cut me off when you get tired of me controlling the conversation, not that I don’t want to hear about you, I absolutely do, but excessive yammering is totally my M.O. and I will ramble on until you stop me.”

He nods for her to continue. 

“Well, I lost someone really special to me and I just cracked, fell apart.” She shrugs and stops with a crooked smile.

“I lost some people too.” Mac nods in sympathy, “My dad, my best friend…” he was surprised at his own ease of opening up to a total stranger.

“Oh I’m sorry,” she frowns with big sympathetic eyes, “mine was just a horse…”

Mac snickers, “Honestly, you probably had a better relationship with your horse than I did with my dad. He was,” Mac scrubs a hand down his face and smiles, “the worst. But he’d just come back into my life after…you know, that’s a topic for another day. Tell me about your horse,” he grins, showing genuine interest, “I like horses, my best friend was very fond of them.”

“Aw,” she coos with pity and carries on, “I got this horse when I was fifteen, his name was Rider, short for Rider on the Storm. I was going through my Jim Morrison phase, ugh, because that’s really a stupid name for a horse. I was a generic horse girl asking for a pony since she was seven, and my parents decided that between getting me a car and letting me out on the road unsupervised or letting me spend my time taking care of this horse, they’d rather me be stuck at home. So anyway, he was more of a rescue, he was already a few years old when I got him and hadn’t been well cared for.” 

He nods, truly engaged.

She’s pleased she hasn’t lost him yet, most of the guys around the marina just stare at her boobs while she talks and don’t really listen. “I know what you’re thinking, that sounds like a terrible idea, take a neglected horse and give it to a teenage girl who lives on one acre of land. It was a terrible idea, but I made it work. I learned everything I could about horses, books, the internet, talking to people, and it was great. He lives...lived with my parents until he passed a year ago, I had him for 20 years. He’s the reason I became a vet.” 

Her voice speeds up to keep up with her train of thought, “I couldn’t decide if I wanted to focus on larger animals and travel to ranches and farms for my practice, or deal with domestic housepets. Well, I chose small animals so I could work in the city. I _thought_ that it would be better seeing everyones companions instead of the animals that were serial numbered and used for business. So yeah, anyway, compassion fatigue.”

As he searches for how to respond to her Cliff’s Notes version of her life’s journey, she pipes back up, “And I’m totally not segueing into this properly, but you seem kind of handy. And not in the shirtless guy on the ladder fixing a barn door in a Hallmark movie kind of way.”

He laughs again, something he hasn’t done in quite a while, “I guess you could say that. Is there something you need help with?”

“No, not right now, but the last few guys I’ve had out to fix things were really skeevy and made me uncomfortable. So, yeah, is it ok to come knock on your door when I break something?”

Blushing, he replies, “That sounds okay, but I’m not taking my shirt off.” He’s shocked at his own cheekiness after such a tumultuous few months. 

“Thanks, Mac. It was nice to meet you. I’m headed to the store, do you need anything while I’m in town?” 

“Nah, I’m good. Thank you though.”

“Handy and prepared, I like it. See you around.” She waves and leaves the dock. 

Over the next few months, they see each other, at least in passing, nearly every day. Mac helps her with small repairs, she brings him fun cocktail experiments every once in a while, but they keep it to small talk and silly nondescript stories. She tells outrageous stories from work, and he tells about some of the more ridiculous things his best friend got into.

Mac spends most of his time outside: taking walks, hiking, running, enjoying fresh air. He finds himself at the Grand Canyon more than a few times, but always lets her know that he’s going to be gone for a few days backpacking, they have enough of a rapport that he was comfortable with her knowing when to expect him around. 

His calls back to the Phoenix were shorter and further apart, though he loves and misses his family, the calls bring him unexpected stress which they could also sense. He’s comfortable with the anonymity of his new surroundings. He smiles at random people at the supermarket, helps strangers change flat tires, and almost never feels the need to look over his shoulder, something that was so ingrained in him for so many years. He’s still vigilant and observant, but less neurotic about it. 

Mac’s Swiss Army Knife, still always on hand, fixes kids’ bicycles, repairs busted crosswalk signals, and frees ducks caught in plastic waste. He’s saving the world on a much smaller scale, and it is refreshing. He used parts from his phone to fix a neighbor’s fish finder, so he’s not even reachable anymore, but checks in with the team via landline to let them know that he’s willingly incommunicado. He’s a big boy, they know he can take care of himself; plus he’s done a great job staying out of trouble so far. It’s the longest he’s gone without needing stitches or a CT scan in years. 

It's also the longest he's gone without a haircut. He usually wears it long and a little shaggy but keeps it cleaned up and tidy with a trim every six weeks, until now. At this point it's curling up at his collar and almost long enough to tuck completely behind his ears, almost. As he reseals some of the wooden elements on his deck with lacquer, she can't help but giggle at the constant flick of his neck to swing the hair out of his eyes. Does he not own a hat? A bandana? He's a smart guy, you'd think he would have a hack for that.

She goes back into her home and grabs an elastic headband, a bandana, and a silk scarf that's left over from the days when she used to sleep with her bouncy brown curls wrapped up on top of her head. It's not a viable option for Mac by any means, but she thinks it would be amusing to put on him. 

Certain that he also hasn't remembered to adequately hydrate the way he gets so engrossed in his work, she grabs a glass of iced water to make him drink. 

Clearing her throat to announce her presence since the creaking dock didn’t, she began, “You’re gonna hurt your neck constantly flicking your hair out of your eyes like that.”

“Huh?” he asks, looking up and flinging his hair out of his eyes again, “Oh, that? I don’t even notice I’m doing it.”

“Well, it’s probably long enough for a little ponytail,” she hands him the glass and he chugs it fairly quickly, “but I figured you would probably prefer to tie it back with a bandana or something.” She holds the bandana out, bouncing it between her fingers like a matador with a very small cape. “Or just an elastic headband to pull it out of your eyes.” 

He smiles and takes the bandana, placing the glass down on the ground. Tying it around his forehead like he used to do a decade ago in the army, he tilts his head to the side to let her admire his handywork. “Happy now?”

Her satisfied smirk says it all, but she answers anyway, “Yep.” She hands him the headband also and explains, “in case it gets too hot under there and you just need to pull it out of your eyes. I’m sure you can figure out how it works.” 

“Thank you.” he nods and tucks it into his pocket, actually thankful to take a little break form constantly inhaling the polyurethane fumes. 

“If you want me to cut it, I have clippers for Frank and Debbie’s poodle, I’m pretty damn handy with a pair of scissors and a number three guard...on a dog at least.” 

Mac’s look of horror has her on the defensive.

“They’re clean! Jeez.” she laughs, “but if you haven’t found yourself a reliable barber around here, which you clearly have not, I could give it a shot. I cut my own all the time.” She fluffs her short curls with her fingers and shakes her head to show their buoyancy. 

“I may take you up on that,” he tells her awkwardly, unsure if he would actually consider it, but having no real reason not to.

Embarrassed by her own forwardness, Delia’s ready to run away and hide forever. Grooming someone’s dog is no big deal, but cutting someone’s hair is weirdly intimate, and she’s not sure that offer sat well with her mysterious neighbor. “Have fun with your shellac!” She scrambles off Mac’s deck and heads back to her boat, upset with herself that she may have made him uncomfortable by being too outwardly friendly. She plans to lay low for a few days and get her drinking glass back eventually one day when she stops blushing. 

Delia’s latest alcoholic endeavor is a beautifully layered drink made from grenadine, pineapple juice, rum, and blue curacao. It’s a peace offering and looks like a reflection of the sunset in the water; she’s not sure if it even tastes good, but it looks amazing. As she steps onto Mac’s deck she’s careful not to move the drinks too much, but the layers are already starting to settle together. 

When she knocks, she usually gives Mac a couple more minutes to get to the door because even at brunch time, sometimes he’s still slow to respond when he’s really into what he’s doing. He didn’t tell her that he was going backpacking, and she didn’t see him come home the night before, but assumes that he got in after she fell asleep, it wasn’t abnormal. 

Placing the drinks on the freshly painted and lacquered table on the deck, she peeks in the window through a crack in the curtains. Plagued by the idea that he's purposefully avoiding her, she's monentarily relieved that he doesn't actually appear to be inside. 

His pack is hanging on the wall, so he’s not camping. His dismantled phone pieces are still on the counter in the kitchenette. She’s becoming concerned about his whereabouts, but hopes he’s just in the bedroom sleeping hard. Delia keeps an eye out the rest of the day for Mac to emerge from his boat. 

The next day, she’s still not seen him and knocks on the door again. No answer. He doesn’t have a car, so she can’t check to see if that’s around. She doesn’t actually know his real name, so she can’t check jails and hospitals, not that she thinks he’d be there, but you always have to rule out the bad things first. Of course a grown man can be missing for a couple of days without needing to worry, but it wasn’t like him to not be around. One of the perks of their marina was familiarity with the neighbors without intrusiveness. They were all pretty aware of each other’s comings and goings and basic habits, but never "up in your business."

From her deck, she spots a man lurking at the entrance of the main dock, he stands for a long time just watching before leaving half an hour later. With the worry over her missing neighbor and this creeping unknown figure, she’s feeling on edge for the first time since moving in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to my precious pocket friends Anguish and Eliza for their immense help in proofreading and giving Delia a career. Mistakes are mine, bless these two wonderrful people.

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't proofread it, it was so difficult to write because I pride myself on dialogue and music references, it's my bread and butter. So enjoy the mistakes, and I hope it flowed ok and made sense. This is nothing like anything I've written before, so be gentle.


End file.
